


bedside confessional

by orphan_account



Category: The Clash
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Established Relationship, Found Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes, home is a person. Mick tries to be that person for Joe.





	bedside confessional

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in 1976.

Joe’s hair was a messy nest of curlicues, sticking out from under Mick’s bedsheets. Mick stood in the doorway, munching on a plate of beans and toast. Their gig the night before had taken a lot out of Joe, the crowd more unruly than usual with a dozen more bottles to throw. Joe had downed a few too many pints afterwards to make up for it, following Mick home like a lost—and piss drunk—puppy. 

Mick watched him with blooming affection, eyes tracing his face, softened and lineless from sleep. He looked at peace for once, if not a little goofy, bedsheets tangled around his legs and his mouth hanging slightly agape. Mick chuckled under his breath, and a moment later Joe stirred, poking his head out of the covers with a groan and rubbing at his eyes. 

“Chow,” Mick said, crossing the room to stick the plate underneath Joe’s nose.

Joe regarded it with disgust at first, his cheeks still pinkened with a boozy flush, then nuzzled back into his cocoon of blankets.

“Arrivederci,” he grumbled into the nearest pillow.

Mick snorted and set the plate down on the bedside table, then sat beside Joe, the mattress springs creaking underneath his weight. He dropped a kiss into Joe’s hair.

“No need to get cheeky.”

Joe let out a pleased sigh, eyelids fluttering back open. “You’re up unusually early,” he said and his forehead fell to rest affectionately against Mick’s thigh.

The mornings were a time when Mick could catch Joe at his most at ease, before he had the chance to move about or read the news of the day, prompting a deluge of song ideas that had him scribbling on whatever slip of paper he could find.

“Had to help my nan with the groceries,” Mick said. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Joe nodded, fiddling with a loose thread on the pant leg of Mick’s jeans with tobacco stained fingers. He curled slightly in on himself, almost sheepish. “Thanks, by the way, for letting me stay.” 

“Sure, Joe,” Mick said. “You can come ‘round more often, um, if you want.”

Sometimes Mick thought Joe was more comfortable in places that could never be his, like the rotting squats he retreated to after every gig, unclaimed when he got there and unclaimed when he left. Mick figured Joe would rather forgo a home than risk burying his feet in the ground too deep. He was like that sometimes; poetically nomadic, whether it was intentional or not. 

Yet, the way they were sitting amongst rumpled bedsheets, sharing warm glances in the early afternoon, was oddly domestic, almost too domestic for comfort. It edged on something more serious, something that had been budding for quite some time but neither one of them wanted to confront.

Instead, Joe flashed Mick a toothy—or lack thereof—grin, then pulled him down by his shirt collar to kiss him, nipping at his lips. Mick savoured it, one hand carding through Joe’s bedhead, the other sneaking beneath the covers to grip at his bony hip, steadying himself as they meddled into one another. 

Mick knew that as soon they left this room, past the council flats and into the heart of south London, their time together might as well be forgotten. Mick could picture the silence swallowing them as Joe shrunk further and further into himself, the streets narrowing and the buildings behind them falling from view.

Mick must have stiffened at the thought because Joe stilled in return. He pulled away, breaking their kiss, his gaze dropping to a safer spot on the floor.

“I have to take a piss,” Joe grunted, propping himself up on his elbows and nudging Mick away. 

Joe disappeared into the hallway, pulling on an undershirt that had been discarded on the floor the night before. The door opened and shut. Mick sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, almost hoping to taste him.

—

“When are you gonna do something about that?”

Mick and Joe were backstage, packing away their equipment, coming down from the high of another rowdy gig. Joe’s sweat speckled skin shone beneath the yellowy stage lights, and Mick tried not to imagine him in his bed again, pressed into the mattress, fingers tangled in his hair. Not when his other bandmates were close by. 

“What? This?” Joe asked and motioned towards his right forearm, the skin rubbed raw from his frantic strumming. It looked red and cracked, like an awful rug burn. 

“Yeah,” Mick said, shutting the clasps on his guitar case.

“Well, I dunno.” Joe shrugged. “Figured it might build up a callus.” 

“Not sure it works that way, mate,” Mick said. He strolled over, taking Joe’s hand in his palm and turning his arm over to examine the underside. “Looks painful.”

Joe looked up at him, a smirk playing on his lips. There was a mischievous glister in his eyes that was all the more apparent at such close proximity. “I’m a grown boy.”

Mick bit his lip to quell a smile. “Sure.”

They retreated to the pub for a drink after the show with a few other friends, splurging the little money they had on a couple pints each. Paul was sloshed within the hour, already griping on about one thing or another. Joe excused himself to go to the toilets. Mick finished his beer. 

After several minutes and no Joe, Mick went off looking for him. He found Joe running his forearm under the faucet, a grimace on his face.

“Do you think it’ll get infected?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Mick said, “but I’ve probably got something that can take care of that back home.” 

Joe appeared hesitant at first, but it didn’t take much for him to give in. “Alright,” he huffed.

Back at the flat, Mick raided the medicine cabinet, finding a roll of cloth bandages and some sort of jar of antiseptic cream. When he returned with his haul, Joe was sitting on the bed with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and his legs crossed like a schoolboy, flipping through one of Mick’s comics. 

It was clear to Mick that Joe felt like an intruder. Mick saw it in his stiff posture and the careful way he turned each page, like he might taint what wasn’t his. It was strange behaviour for a squatter, but the abandoned properties he occupied were never much more than four walls and a floor. Here, everything around him was so undeniably Mick’s; from the stray broken guitar strings strewn about, to the stack of yellowing science fiction novels on his bedside table, to the rumpled pile of paint spattered clothes. Maybe that’s why things felt different.

“Your gran doesn’t mind me coming over this time of night?” Joe asked.

“Of course not.” Mick shook his head. “She likes you, thinks you're handsome.” 

“Me?” Joe said, eyebrows raised, and Mick could have sworn he saw his cheeks pinken, just for a moment. “I think she’s due for an optometric exam.”

Mick laughed, unscrewing the cap off the jar of cream. “Show me your arm.”

Joe obliged, rolling up his sleeve to his elbow. Mick slathered a gooey glob onto his forearm, working to cover the extent of his injury with deft fingers. His skin, even if it was worse for wear, felt good beneath his touch, warm and soft with the slip of the cream.

“Domestic, this is,” Joe said as Mick was fastening the bandage, the corners of his mouth pinched. 

Mick was unsure whether Joe was complaining or not. “I s’pose,” he said. “You’re not very good at taking care of yourself sometimes.”

Joe smirked around his cigarette. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

“So do I,” Mick teased.

“Then why bother with me?” Joe asked. It was meant to be a joke, but Mick could hear Joe’s insecurities harshen the words around their edges.

Mick reached over and plucked the cigarette from Joe’s lips. He took a drag, lying down to stare up at the paint peeling on the ceiling. It was easier to find the right words to say without Joe staring a hole into his forehead.

“Because I like you, you knobhead,” Mick said, nervously fiddling with the cigarette, flicking ash onto the bed. “And it’s nice to look out for someone who’ll look out for you.”

A beat passed between them, then two. Mick nearly yelped when Joe stole back the cigarette so he could slot their lips together. Mick was expecting at least a little resistance on Joe’s part to something so achingly sentimental. Instead, Joe met him in the middle, not going as far as reciprocation but not pulling away either like he usually did. It was almost reassuring, if not for the nagging feeling in Mick’s gut that begged for something more, something more confessional. 

Nonetheless, Mick hummed pleasedly into the kiss as Joe cupped his cheek, thighs pinning Mick to the mattress. He deepened the kiss until Mick could scarcely breathe, then pulled away. He took a puff of his cigarette, blowing smoke just above Mick’s head as if to make a point.   

“Hey, you only snogged me to nick your fag back,” Mick griped. “Some mate you are.”

Joe smiled. “Only lookin’ out for you.”

Mick yanked him down to kiss him again, the cigarette quickly forgotten.

—

They spent Sunday morning pasting posters around Camden Town to advertise their next gig. When they were finished, having run out of posters but not paste, Mick and Joe walked down to the street market to observe the goings on of all things cosmopolitan, while Paul left to meet up with some mates down in Shephard’s Bush, promising to catch up with them later.

It was late October and growing colder by the day, the sky pillowy with dark grey clouds. Mick rubbed his hands together for warmth as they perused the market, stopping to rifle through some second hand records. They had no intention to buy anything, pockets filled with nothing but half empty packets of cigarettes, and the stall keeper knew it, keeping one watchful eye on them. Mick felt a pang of anger as Joe pulled a beat up Eddie Cochran record out of the stack only to read the liner notes and set it back down in the crate again. 

So instead, they sat down on a bench and watched people pass by, sharing a rare moment of silence. A weathered housewife pushed a stroller through the square while a girl with messy, blonde pigtails skipped after them, a muddied doll held tight in her small fist. Mick caught Joe smiling at her. She stared for a moment, no doubt sizing up his punk outfit, then followed after her mother, dragging her feet.

“Do you want kids?” Mick asked.

It was an oddly sentimental and frivolous thing to ask, especially for blokes in their position. Sometimes Mick forgot what they looked like to people outside of the scene, as long as no one was picking a fight over it; cropped hair, leather jackets and canvas pants, paint splattered button downs and skinny ties. The last of the orangey blond dye had faded from Joe’s hair only weeks ago. Even then, Mick didn’t always feel the need to keep up an image. Not with Joe. 

Joe snorted. “Doesn’t seem all that attainable on our 50P a week.” 

Mick laughed. Joe managed a small smile. “I don’t mean now, but, like, in the future,” Mick said.

Joe shrugged. “It might be nice, yeah, if our economic situation starts looking up. Not sure we could raise a kid on the dole.”

“We?” 

Mick watched Joe go pink in the pointy ends of his ears. Or maybe they’d already been flushed from the cold. “Piss off, you know what I mean,” he said with a half-smirk. It nearly gave way to something brighter and more sincere. 

Mick would have teased Joe further if not for the flush of his own growing on his cheeks and the way Joe’s face had suddenly turned stony. He patted Joe on the back of the hand and stood, burying his fists in his coat pockets. 

“I’m fuckin’ starving,” Mick said. 

Joe followed him out of the square, close behind. They ducked down a backstreet and the chatter of the marketplace faded into an indistinct hum, being replaced by the sound of their boot heels clattering against the rain slicked pavement. 

“Do you think Bernie will give us some money for a bite?” Joe asked flatly, like he already knew the answer.

Mick snorted. “And here I was thinking that one day we might be able to afford a pram.” 

Joe looked like he was part way through a rebuttal when he decided to crowd into Mick’s space. He pressed him up against the brick of the nearest building. No one could see them from where they were tucked away, but Mick still felt his heart lurch as Joe kissed him roughly, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. Mick gripped at the front of Joe’s jacket, holey, hand-me-down, definitely too thin for the autumn weather. Mick pulled him close, then pushed him away just as quickly when he heard the shouts of rowdy teenagers the next street over.   

Mick looked at Joe. Joe looked at the pavement. The air sweltered and sat heavy in Mick’s lungs. The look on Joe’s face was one of avoidance, embarrassment perhaps.

Maybe Mick had said too much, nudged whatever was between them a bit too far this time; talking as if they had a future together, as if this was somehow _okay_. It was a delicate thing, their friendship, well, their more-than-friendship. Sometimes Joe felt like the only person who was ever there for Mick, and sometimes, Mick felt like he didn’t know Joe at all.

This pull back was Joe’s way of clawing out of it; an intimacy that was somehow still distant. What Mick really wanted was always out of reach. 

“Joe,” Mick began, but Joe cut him off.

“I’ve got some pocket change. There’s a café down the street,” Joe said like nothing had happened. He turned away from him and started down the sidewalk. “I’ll buy you eggs and chips.” 

Mick managed a smile. They kept walking.

—

The call came just past noon.

Mick was still in bed, fading in and out of sleep. When he heard the phone ring, he expected his nan to get it, but as it continued to drone on and on he figured she’d gone out for the day.

With a grunt, Mick rolled out of bed and wandered into the sitting room, rubbing at his eyes. He snatched the phone off the hook. 

“Yeah?” 

“Mick?”

It was Joe. 

Mick peaked around the corner to look at the clock. “Did I miss rehearsal?”

“No, no.” Joe sounded strained, his voice cracking around the edges like it did after a show, having sung until his throat gave out. But this was different, something that lemon and honey couldn’t cure. Mick could hear Joe on the other side of the line, chewing at his thumb nail. 

“Could you come ‘round to the squat?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mick said and walked back into his bedroom, stretching the phone cord as far as it would go. He balanced it between his ear and shoulder as he pulled on a pair of trousers, frayed at the knees, the cuffs accidentally crusted with paint, probably Paul’s doing. “I, um, you alright, Joe? Something the matter?” 

The line went quiet. Mick was beginning to think Joe had hung up when he finally said, “Just want to see you is all.” 

Mick would have let his heart flutter if it didn’t sound like such a lie. Not a lie with malicious intent, just the kind of thing Joe would say to keep his distance, his toe on the line without any intention of crossing over.

“Alright, I’ll be ‘round in a twenty minutes.”

Mick hung up the phone.

It was drizzling outside, painting the streets of south London a miserable grey, like a fading Victorian pastiche. The door was unlocked, as it always was, so Mick hurried inside, wiping the raindrops from his jacket.

The usually bustling squat was quiet today, save for one of Joe’s transient friends passed out on a stained mattress in the corner of the sitting room. Joe poked his head out from around the corner. He looked more tired than usual, the bruises under his eyes deep set, his skin pallid. Mick almost wanted to grab him by the shirt collar and kiss him right there, tease him about something that was sure to make him blush if only to get some colour back in his cheeks, but he doubted any of his attempts would be well received.

They sat in what constituted Joe’s bedroom, nothing more than a musty mattress on the floor, his Telecaster propped up against the wall, its broken strings due for a change. There were some second-hand books stacked next to it and some scratched up records Joe had probably gotten dirt cheap, rumpled and yellowing notepaper strewn about the floor. Mick could never really understand why Joe wanted to live this way. This vagabond lifestyle wasn’t so romantic when you looked at it up close. The squat was cold and damp, the ceiling browned with water damage.

Maybe it was just his naïveté or having been spoiled by old ladies when he lived in Park West, but Mick liked frivolous comforts, freshly washed linens and scented hand soap. He had wanted the girls and the Rolls Royce and the collection of guitars that the rock ‘n’ roll Svengalis of his youth had promised. Instead, he had met Joe, a lost boy straight out of Peter Pan with hair just as curly as his and hardly any front teeth, but a boy who had taken Mick by the hand and kissed him like he was his only refuge from the world.

In the end, it was nothing to complain about, but Joe was about the last thing Mick expected when he strummed his first chord in secondary school. Mick may have felt somewhat out of place, but Joe was warm by his side, his smile slow and languid, and that was enough.   

Joe had smoked his cigarette halfway down to the nub before he revealed what was bothering him, what he hinted at on the phone. 

“Went to see my mum and dad,” he said, matter-of-fact, almost stately.

Joe spoke little about his family. If he spoke about them at all, it was offhand comments about his father being strict or being dumped at boarding school, but those small insights into his upbringing were few and far between. Mick had known Joe for months before he even mentioned he had a brother.

Joe rolled his cigarette between his fingers. “When was the last time you saw your parents?”

In truth, it had been about half a year since Mick had properly seen his father, and although he still got postcards in the mail from his mother bi-weekly, it had been over a month since she last called. 

Joe, being perceptive, gathered his answer from the silence that stretched between them. It spoke.

“It never feels like going home, does it?” Joe said. He sounded resigned, but just on the edge of it, inching back from the drop. Somehow, Joe was always fighting with himself, even about things that weren’t his fault. 

Mick nodded. He scooted a little closer to him so their shoulders touched. Joe seemed to let some of the tension out from his body, stubbing his cigarette out on the floor, then turning to look at Mick. The seam between his eyebrows was pinched as a thousand thoughts ran through his head. Joe thought too much sometimes, felt too much always. 

To counter some of that, Mick reached out and ran his fingers through Joe’s curly mop of hair. It was growing too long, and soon Joe would take some scissors to it, cutting it into a choppy mess like Mick had reluctantly done to his own hair after forming the group. Joe melded into his touch, pressing his cheek into Mick’s palm. He shut his eyes and sighed. 

 _I feel at home with you,_ Mick wanted to say, but the words died unceremoniously in his throat. 

Instead, he leaned in to press a tentative kiss to the corner of Joe’s mouth. Joe turned his head and their lips met full on. Mick hummed, partly surprised and partly pleased at the contact. Joe’s fingers settled in Mick’s hair, tugging him gently forward, pressing into him. 

When the kiss broke, Joe rested his forehead against Mick’s shoulder. He mumbled something that Mick couldn’t quite catch into the crook of his neck. Mick didn’t ask him to repeat it. The way Joe’s lips brushed his skin felt confessional enough.


End file.
